


A Musketeer's Honor

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BAMF Aramis, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Protective Athos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-27 14:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Constance never expected a musketeer to swoop in out of the shadows and save her, and she certainly didn’t expect him to take a repeated interest in her safety. It’s a matter of honor, he tells her. Honor is everything to a musketeer. So when another’s is slandered, Athos takes it very, very personally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Laureleaf made a comment wondering how Constance and Athos met since it's mentioned that they knew each other pre-series. And my muse turned it into a nice little chapter fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Constance drew her cloak tighter about herself as she made her way through the streets of Paris after dark. She hadn't meant to stay so late at Mabella's, but the elderly woman had asked if she could take care of a few chores around the house and it had taken Constance longer than expected. She didn't begrudge Mabella though. The widow had been sickly lately and her son was serving a week's sentence in the Chatelet for some drunken offense, leaving no one to check in on her except friends. Constance had brought some bread and fruit to make sure the old woman stayed fed and she planned to do so again the next day, but she'd have to try to go earlier so she wouldn't be caught out at night. Paris wasn't exactly safe after sunset.

She quickened her pace, flinching at every noise that echoed ominously in the darkness—a dull thud, the rattle of a wheel, the creak of a door. It was like a world removed from the familiar streets she'd traversed countless times during the day.

She was still several blocks away from home when a shadow detached from an alley to her left and stepped into her path. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled up short, pulse fluttering in alarm.

"Excuse me," she said and tried to move around the large figure. He sidestepped to block her.

"What's a pretty thing like you doin' all the way out 'ere?" he asked, voice rough like gravel.

Constance drew her shoulders back and affected a bravado she didn't feel. "Let me pass."

"You got any coins under them skirts?"

Her face flushed hot and her heart beat faster. "No. Leave me alone."

He seized her arm roughly and she had to swallow a gasp of pain.

"You've got other stuff under them skirts," he said, leaning close with a leer.

Constance slapped him hard, the sound loud in the empty street. But instead of stunning him into releasing her so she could run, the blow only enraged him. His grip on her arm tightened and he swung her around, slamming her back against the alley wall. Constance yelped as pain shot down her spine. She took another breath to scream, but he slapped a hand over her mouth, his thumb digging into one cheek.

"I could let you scream," he sneered, putrid breath wafting over her face. "No one would come."

Constance let out a muffled cry into the meat of his palm.

"Release her," a new voice spoke, low yet commanding in the darkness. Both Constance and her assailant flicked their gazes to the side where a shadowed figure stood at the mouth of the alley, the wide brim of a hat completely concealing his features.

"Mind yer own business," the first man snarled.

"Attacking a woman on the street is my business," the stranger replied, and there was the sound of grating metal unsheathing from a scabbard. "Now release her. I will not ask again."

Constance was shoved against the wall and her attacker stepped away. She saw him draw a dagger from his belt, a curved ugly thing that made her heart skip a beat. The other man seemed unperturbed and merely stood his ground waiting for the assailant to lunge first. When he did, a sword swiftly arced up to catch the dagger's blade and with a twist sent it flying. Then the stranger deftly flicked his wrist and thrust his sword forward, piercing the other man's jerkin. A startled gasp escaped the thug's lips before he slipped from the edge of the blade and dropped to the ground.

Constance clutched at the folds of her cloak and looked with trepidation upon her would-be rescuer. His features were barely discernible in the guttering light from a street torch, and the hat upon his head hid his eyes further.

"Are you all right?" he asked in an unaffected, almost bored tone.

"Fine. Thank you," she replied in an equally stilted manner, casting harried glances down at the slain man near her feet.

"You shouldn't be on the streets this late. It's dangerous." He paused and canted his head at her dress, perhaps evaluating whether he thought she looked like a prostitute. He sheathed his sword. "Are you headed home?"

She was, but she didn't want to tell this stranger where she lived; her husband was out of town on business and she was alone at the Bonacieux house. Just because this man saved her from one ruffian didn't mean he wasn't also one.

"Mademoiselle?" he prompted.

"Madame," she corrected stiffly. "And yes, I'm on my way to my husband's house."

"Is it far?" the man asked in the same bland tone. "It would be a shame were you to be accosted again on your way there."

Constance stiffened. "Is that what you saved me for? To have your way yourself?"

He finally blinked, looking somewhat taken aback. "No, I saved you because I'm a musketeer."

She paused at that. Constance had heard of the Musketeers, the King's royal guard. They were supposed to be honorable men of the highest regard, and now she felt slightly foolish for her suspicion. "Oh, well, thank you."

"I am Athos," he said. "And if you do not object, I would see you safely returned home, Madame."

"Bonacieux," she added. "Constance."

He inclined his head in greeting. Constance supposed it couldn't hurt, so she nodded her assent and quickly sidestepped around the body to escape the alley. It seemed wrong to leave him there, but he likely would have done the same to her, after doing much worse first. The streets really weren't safe at night and poor fools were often found the next morning, throats slit and purses liberated. She worried about what would happen the next time she had to come down this way to Mabella's house. If only she could defend herself like a man.

Her companion was silent, which was understandable at first, but after several blocks it became awkwardly uncomfortable and was beginning to make Constance feel nervous.

"I'm not usually out this late," she blurted just to break the silence. "I was taking supper to an ill friend. Tomorrow I'll make sure to leave earlier."

Athos didn't say anything. Constance couldn't tell if his taciturnity was because he was annoyed at having to go out of his way to walk her home out of some begrudging sense of duty. In fact, she couldn't get a sense of him at all. He wore his silence like a mantle as snugly fitted as his coat and the shadows that clung to the folds.

They finally arrived at her home and Athos frowned at the darkened windows.

"My husband is away on business," Constance found herself saying, though she immediately chastised herself for it. She hadn't planned to admit she was completely alone at the moment.

"That's why he didn't accompany you to see your sick friend," Athos said with only a slight lilt of a question in the tone.

Constance internally huffed. Bonacieux wouldn't have gone with her anyway, either too busy with work or afraid of mingling with the ill, but she wasn't going to speak badly of her husband to a complete stranger.

She reached the doorstep and inserted her key into the lock. Once the door was open, she turned around. "Thank you for saving me back there and seeing me home."

Athos tipped his hat at her. "It was my honor. Goodnight, Madame Bonacieux."

"Goodnight." She slipped inside and shut the door, alone once more in an empty house. With a lonely sigh, she hung up her cloak and embraced the shroud of silence that would be her only companion for the rest of the night.

o.0.o

"Why have we not arrived in Paris yet?"

Aramis held back a sigh at the plaintive question, to which the answer would only offend the one bleating about it. The fact of the matter was they could have been in Paris yesterday, but the German envoy had kept insisting they take breaks during the journey, first because he kept worrying there was something wrong with his horse or tack, then because he was sore from being in the saddle for hours, then the sun was bothering him. He also couldn't bear to maintain anything other than a walk. A horseman, the German was not. He'd had a carriage for the first part of his journey to the border where Aramis had met him to then escort into France, but it had then been caught in the mud and rendered unsalvageable. The envoy had been forced to leave it behind, much to his chagrin.

"We will be in Paris early tomorrow," Aramis replied.

"You said that yesterday."

Aramis bit his tongue. He caught the eye of the envoy's valet, whose expression was commiserative. Aramis felt bad for the young man, who would continue to be stuck with the envoy even after they arrived at the palace. Whereas Aramis could finally get some peace back at the garrison where Athos's surly moods were more preferable to escorting foreign officials. The mission was of minor importance, the envoy's business with the King of France regarding a contractual arrangement for some goods or other between countries, so Aramis had been sent alone. There weren't enough musketeers to spare on lesser assignments, but he still longed for Porthos's good humor during the tedious ride day in and day out. Soon, though. Soon his mission would be done and he'd demand someone else get the honor of the return escort.

It was getting late and Aramis was preparing himself to inform the Germans that they would have to make camp, something he was sure would not go over well. But there were no inns along this route; it would have been a shortcut if not for the frequent interruptions.

Four men suddenly stepped out from behind the trees ahead and moved into their path. They had pistols in hand though hadn't raised them. Aramis pulled back on the reins to stop his horse and regarded them warily.

"Off the horses, gentlemen," one of them spoke.

"We are on the King's business," Aramis replied. "You would do well to let us pass." His hand drifted toward one of his pistols.

The spokesperson whipped his attention to him. "Don't," he warned.

A twig snapped behind him and Aramis flicked a brief look over his shoulder to see two more men emerging, guns trained on their backs. He mentally cursed. Four against one was bad odds to begin with; six against one was near impossible.

Aramis slowly dismounted, the Germans following suit. At a gesture from the lead bandit, they moved away from the horses.

"Remove your clothes," the man ordered.

The envoy choked in indignation. "I beg your pardon."

"There's coin in the saddlebags," Aramis interjected. "You can take it and go."

The German representative spluttered his face into a puce shade at that as well, but Aramis didn't care. A few coins weren't worth their lives.

The bandit, however, merely waved his gun at them again. "Clothes."

Aramis narrowed his eyes but didn't comply. Why wouldn't they just take the money and go? What was their intention here?

When neither German moved to obey either, one of the bandits shoved the envoy to his knees and pointed a sword to the back of his neck.

"Careful," the leader snapped. "We don't want blood on the clothes."

The envoy reached up to start fumbling at undoing the buttons of his coat. "Please, just take the money," he now pleaded.

"That is not our intention here," the bandit replied.

If money wasn't their intention, what was? These men had obviously been lying in wait, but if not to rob any unsuspecting travelers then perhaps to accost the German envoy specifically? Which meant there could be a traitor either within France or Germany. Aramis urgently tried to put the pieces together. It could be a kidnapping for ransom. But surely a little blood on their garments would prove the sincerity of their captors. Unless it would be too difficult to convince the Crown there was proof of life. Still, that scenario didn't quite feel like it fit.

One of the bandits had been rifling through the envoy's saddlebags and now pulled out a set of papers with the representative's seal. The leader nodded in response.

"Hurry up," he told the German official. "And remove your signet ring." He turned to Aramis. "We're also going to need your pauldron."

With rising alarm, Aramis could now guess what these men intended, and he could not let it happen. He whipped his pistol from his weapons belt and shot the man holding the sword to the envoy's back. He then flipped the gun to grab the barrel and clobbered the man standing behind him with the grip. Dropping the spent pistol, he drew his sword and gauche as another bandit leaped forward. Their blades clashed midair with a discordant clang.

A second man darted in and Aramis blocked and parried the rapidly successive blows, even though keeping up with them meant he had to give ground. He couldn't let himself be driven too far away from the Germans he was tasked to protect though, so he feinted left, catching one opponent's blade and using the man's momentum to send him sprawling. Then he could focus his full attack on the other, and with one swift thrust, stabbed the man through the chest.

The first quickly leaped up again, and Aramis spun, throwing up his sword so their blades locked. He rammed the pommel of his main gauche against the man's head, knocking him back a step.

A shot cracked the air and something slammed into Aramis's shoulder with enough force that he twisted midair from the impact. He pitched over the crest of a steep slope and was suddenly sliding down wildly through loose leaves. He scrambled to stop his descent but couldn't before the ground abruptly dropped away and he was falling through open air. A few moments later he plunged into freezing water and was swallowed in its dark abyss.


	2. Chapter 2

After a day of housekeeping and the occasional client of her husband's coming to check on an order, Constance was finally able to pack a basket of food to take to Mabella's. She donned her cloak and hooked the basket over her arm, then stepped outside and locked her door. Turning to the square, she pulled up short in surprise when she spotted the musketeer Athos loitering by the well. In the light of day she could see his coat was blue and his hair brown with lighter tones. The pauldron on his shoulder was a clear emblem of his rank in the Musketeer Guard.

Constance glanced around to see if he could perchance be waiting for anyone else, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. She walked over. "Monsieur Athos," she greeted.

"Madame Bonacieux." His gaze flicked down to the basket on her arm. "You are going to visit your sick friend?"

"Yes," she said uncertainly.

He nodded. "I'll walk with you."

"Oh, you really don't have to…"

"Should you be there late, you'll require an escort home," he said in that same neutral tone.

Constance shifted in discomfort. "That's not necessary. There's plenty of time to get home before dark. I'm sure you have other musketeer duties to attend to."

"A musketeer's duty is to protect France, and that includes its citizens."

Constance really didn't feel she was worth the effort, especially for an errand as simple as this. But he seemed unlikely to budge on the matter, so she inclined her head in a nod of gratitude and they set off.

Once again, Athos was even less of a conversationalist than a horse. She might have thought his attention and motivations an attempt to flirt with her, except he wasn't even making an effort to fill the silence.

"I understand saving me last night," she spoke up. "But why care enough to come back today? You don't even know me."

"I saw a need and honor demands I attend to it."

He made it sound so…obligatory. Still, Constance supposed there must be some measure of kindness that he would bother at all.

"Not many would think that way," she remarked.

"Yes, well, honor is one of the few things I have left."

Constance didn't know what to say to that and so fell silent for the rest of the walk to Mabella's. When they arrived, Constance headed for the door but paused when Athos hung back.

"I'll wait outside," he said.

She felt awkward leaving him standing out there, but he had already moved off to go hover by the corner. She would just have to make this a quick visit.

Constance served up a plate of fresh food for Mabella and then set to cleaning the dishes from last night's meal. Unfortunately, the poor old woman was lonely and kept engaging Constance in conversation, asking about this and that, prattling on about this neighbor and that neighbor. It was probably for the best she hadn't invited Athos inside. Constance kept trying to extricate herself, but Mabella would exclaim she just remembered something important to tell her, which of course didn't end up being that important after all.

It was almost dusk when she was finally able to pull herself away. She was both surprised and yet not to find Athos still waiting, leaning against the wall as unbothered as ever. She began to wonder if anything fazed that man.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "Mabella can be quite chatty. I can probably get home on my own just before dark. You don't have to waste your time any longer."

Athos placed his hat upon his head, a strange look in his eye Constance couldn't quite identify but that had a morose glimmer to it. "If not escorting you, then I would be halfway into my cups." He paused. "There is plenty of the night left for the latter."

He moved off, something heavy and dolent in both his tone and demeanor. Constance felt an empathetic tug to reach out and offer…something. But she didn't know how nor if it would be accepted and so kept her peace.

Athos walked her to her front door. "Do you plan to return the next night?" he asked.

She almost said no to release him from this misguided sense of obligation, but found it difficult to lie under that inscrutable gaze. "Yes. Mabella's son won't be back for another day. I'll bring her enough tomorrow to tide her over until he returns."

Athos nodded. "I will see you then."

With a tip of his hat, he turned and walked off into the deepening gloaming.

Constance shook her head to herself; it was nice to know there were good men in the world.

o.0.o

Aramis moved along the shoreline, stepping as carefully and quietly as he could in the dark of night. A low quarter moon provided some illumination, amplified by the reflection off the water's surface. Unfortunately, the blessing of helping him navigate his way up the bank was also a curse, for it left him exposed.

A snap of a twig had him quickly crouching down among the reeds, swallowing a grunt as he cradled his arm close to his chest. His shoulder throbbed from where the pistol shot had hit, made worse for the ball still lodged in the muscle. On the upside, his dip in the frigid waters of the lake had slowed the bleeding. But it only traded one dire situation for another, as his clothes were cold and damp, not having had time to dry before the sun had set and he'd been shivering since crawling his way out of the water. A cough tickled his throat and he tried his best not to let it out lest it alert those searching for him.

Footsteps trampling the underbrush came closer.

"There's no sign of him," an angry voice snapped. "We've been searchin' over an hour."

"He couldn't possibly have survived," another said.

"No body means there's a chance."

Aramis recognized the third voice as the leader and forced himself to breathe shallowly.

"You two stay and  _find_  him. Krause and I will continue to Paris and proceed with the plan."

"Krause can't pass as a musketeer without the pauldron," the first rejoined.

"He'll be the envoy's valet."

"How will you explain the absence of the escort?"

"I'll think of something. You two just make sure that musketeer doesn't make it back to Paris."

Aramis waited for them to move off before he let out the breath he'd been holding. A wave of pain ripped from his shoulder down his arm and he gritted his teeth against making a sound. He didn't know what foul plots these men had in mind, but it could not be good. He had to warn the King.

But first he had to make it back alive. A feat whose odds were currently stacked against him. He had one pistol clipped to his belt, but it was waterlogged and useless. His cartridge packets, likewise, were ruined. He'd lost his sword in the fall. He also had no idea what had happened to the German envoy and he needed to find out.

He waited a little bit longer to make sure the area was clear before pulling himself back to his feet and slogging up the slope to make his way back to the path in the woods. Perhaps the attackers hadn't expected that from him, because he didn't encounter them.

Stumbling over his own two feet, Aramis picked his way under the shadowed trees until he found the scene of the ambush. The envoy and his valet were both dead, stripped down to their underclothes and left where they were slain. The horses were gone, as were the German's papers and signet ring. With those, the imposters could gain entrance to the palace and an audience directly with the King.

Aramis rocked back onto his haunches as another wave of pain pulsed out from his shoulder. He had no means of properly tending to it, and the wound would slow him down. Not to mention he would not get far in the dark on foot, but he had to try to reach Paris before those men did, assuming they didn't ride through the night without stopping.

He untied his wet sash from his waist and wound it around his shoulder, taking one end in his teeth and the other in one hand, tightening it as best he could. He could only hope the dampness in his shoulder was just water and not fresh blood. He shivered, the cold piercing down to his bones. He would have to keep moving to stave off succumbing to it.

Mustering his strength, Aramis heaved himself to his feet and set off, keeping to the trees for cover though it hampered his speed. But there were still men out there intent on killing him, and the fate of France rested in him not letting them succeed.

o.0.o

Morning broke all too soon as it did every day, dragging Athos from the blessed oblivion of drunken sleep. He pushed himself off his stomach to sit up, knocking against a corked bottle of wine discarded on the mattress. He snatched it up and took a long swig, the tepid liquid sloshing down to his precarious stomach. In a moment it would settle, as would the ache behind his eyes. The physical pain always subsided to give way to the one in his heart. He drank to forget, to numb that fierce void in his soul, but it never failed to return come morning.

His duty as a musketeer saw him through the waking hours, gave him a reason to haul himself out of the squalor of his own misery. It sustained him, and without it he would have drank himself into the Seine a long time ago.

His life was a tenuous tug-of-war between the demons of his own making and the core values that had created them.

He heaved himself up and over to the window, pulling in the bucket that'd been filled that morning by his landlady. It was icy cold, but dunking his head inside it served to banish the last lingering effects of the previous night's drinking. Startlingly awake now, Athos stretched out his stiff joints and donned his coat and uniform, then made his way to the Musketeer garrison.

He came upon the captain on his way out.

"I've been summoned to the palace on a matter of the utmost urgency," Treville told him, sounding annoyed.

"What matter?" Athos asked.

"I wasn't told."

Athos turned on his heel to accompany him. He'd become Treville's unofficial lieutenant, a responsibility that added further weight to the tether that kept him functioning when the alcohol wore off.

They made their way to the palace and were directed to one of the many receiving rooms to see the King. The Cardinal and another man were also in attendance.

"I am most disappointed, Treville," Louis said the moment they walked in.

Treville slowed to a stop. "Your Majesty?"

"One of your musketeers was tasked with escorting the German envoy to Paris, was he not?"

Athos's back straightened. When Louis started referring to his own musketeers as the captain's, it meant he was displeased. Aramis was the escort, and Athos knew he was due to have been back yesterday, but there could be any number of reasons to explain the delay.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Treville replied. "Aramis is one of my best men. I'm sure they will arrive within the day."

"The envoy has arrived, and the musketeer has deserted!" Louis exclaimed, gesturing sharply to the third man in the room.

Treville faltered, a confused frown pinching his face. "Your Majesty?"

The German envoy cleared his throat. "Your escort met me and my valet at the border as arranged, but yesterday abruptly abandoned us in the woods, making off with half our coin."

Treville shot a look at Athos, whose jaw tightened at the allegation.

"There must be some explanation," Treville replied.

"Perhaps a thief robbed you and Aramis went after him," Athos put in. Someone could have followed them from a village, attracted by the envoy's finer garments, and robbed them in the night. But even so, Aramis should have caught up with the Germans shortly after dealing with the situation.

The envoy drew his shoulders back. "My valet saw him take the gold."

Athos narrowed his eyes on the man. "Then he misinterpreted what he saw. A musketeer is not a thief."

"Are you accusing the German envoy of lying?" Cardinal Richelieu interjected sharply.

Athos pressed his lips into a thin line. "No. I am suggesting his valet is confused about what transpired."

"There was no one else along the road," the envoy broke in firmly. "I understand you would seek to defend the honor of your company, but this man is a thief and a disgrace."

"Agreed," Richelieu said earnestly.

Athos clenched his fists at the obvious glee on the Cardinal's face over these accusations against a musketeer.

Richelieu turned toward the King. "Your Majesty, dereliction of duty is a serious enough charge, but robbing a foreign emissary amounts to treason. Should this musketeer Aramis show his face in Paris, he must be arrested and thrown in the Bastille to await sentence."

Louis nodded and turned a disappointed moue on Treville. "I trust you will hand out those orders."

"Your Majesty, an investigation should be conducted before such charges are laid out."

"If the musketeer is apprehended, he can be interrogated," the Cardinal replied smoothly.

A muscle in Treville's jaw ticked, but as much as he may have wanted to argue, he could not stand against His Majesty's orders. He nodded stiffly.

"Good," Louis said and turned to the envoy. "My apologies for this dreadful business."

Taking that as a dismissal, Treville pivoted on his heel and marched out of the room. Athos followed. Once outside in the courtyard, he grabbed the captain's arm to halt him.

"Aramis would never commit the actions he's been accused of."

"I know that," Treville hissed. "But he's not here to defend himself."

"Then something happened to him. And the envoy is either behind it or he thinks spinning this story will somehow gain him something in the trade negotiations."

Treville narrowed his eyes and glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "What reason could the Germans possibly have for either?"

"I don't know." And Athos frankly didn't care. "But I will not stand by and let them tarnish Aramis's name."

"The Cardinal would have likely given the Red Guard orders to arrest Aramis already," Treville pointed out. "And I have no choice but to pass the orders on as well."

Athos nodded. He understood the captain's position. "Give me and Porthos a head start to find him first."

Treville huffed out a breath. "And where will you look?"

"Assuming the envoy's story about Aramis being with them until yesterday is true, he should not be that far out from the city. And if he's able, he will try to make his way back here. I know which route he would have taken."

Treville nodded grimly. "I'll give you some leeway, but I won't be able to hold back the Cardinal if you're caught aiding and abetting him."

"Understood."

Treville gripped Athos's elbow hard. "Find proof of whatever this plot is, and Aramis."

Athos inclined his head and turned toward the gate, marching out with the force of his purpose and urgency. He would fetch Porthos, and then they would make haste to go after their brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some badass Aramis this chapter.

Aramis staggered against a tree, pausing to take a moment to catch his breath. The sun had been up for a few hours and he'd been walking for at least twice as long. He'd been forced to stop and rest at times, especially when the moon had set and taken its scant light with it. Now his greatest impediment was his own waning strength. His clothes had finally dried, but after all night of them being damp, Aramis was still shivering and a persistent cough had set in. He could only hope the mild fever was just due to the chill he'd caught from his plunge in the lake and not from his wound becoming infected as well. He was still hours from Paris, assuming he could maintain his lumbering pace without collapsing.

Aramis closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Or for someone to miraculously come to his aid.

The thundering hooves across the meadow had him lifting his head, and then nearly sagging against the tree in defeat. His two pursuers were riding hard across the field toward him. He couldn't outrun them in his condition and his pistol was still useless as anything other than a crude bludgeon.

He slipped into the woods for cover, stumbling through the underbrush until he came across a tree wide enough to duck behind. He heard the men reach the tree line and split up, their horses trampling through the foliage. Aramis peeked around the edge of the trunk and spotted one of the men advancing toward his position—and the man was riding Aramis's horse.

He raised his eyes to Heaven and thanked God for this turn of Providence. Now all Aramis had to do was make use of it.

Pushing himself up straighter, he pulled his pistol and listened as the horse clomped closer. He edged around the tree to come up behind the man. Then he let out a sharp, shrill whistle. Bern reared in response, unseating the rider.

And Porthos said that command would never come in handy.

Aramis surged forward as the man hit the ground, swinging his pistol and clobbering him in the side of the head. He pulled the man's sword from its scabbard and lurched toward his horse to grab the reins, but a shot splintering the tree inches from his face had him jerking back. The horse shied away and Aramis was forced to dart for cover again.

He wove in and out of the trees, staying low. He found a hollow to duck down in and buried his face in his elbow to muffle the cough that punched its way up from his chest. It felt like it took forever to abate, and when it finally did, Aramis held himself perfectly still and listened for sounds of the second assailant narrowing in on his position. At least the sword in his hand evened the odds a little, though his shoulder twinged with the weight of gripping it.

Aramis focused on steadying his breathing, and once he'd slowed it and his heart rate, he was able to hear the softest crunch of mulch under foot as the other attacker drew closer. He waited, assuming the man had already reloaded his pistol. Aramis would have to make sure not to give him a chance to use it.

The tip of a sword came into view first, followed by the figure bearing it. Aramis leaped out, sword swinging. Their blades clashed with a raucous clang in the otherwise silent forest. Fire erupted in Aramis's shoulder with every thrust and parry and exhaustion made his movements less elegant than usual, but desperation kept him on his feet.

His opponent's eyes were fierce and determined, and while his sword kept Aramis occupied, he reached for his pistol with his other hand. Aramis locked their blades and stepped into the man's space, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it up. The shot fired into the treetops. Aramis shifted his grip to grab the barrel, heedless of the heat of the metal from just being fired, and yanked it away. He swung it against his opponent's head, knocking him back a step. As the man staggered, his blade sliding free, Aramis thrust his rapier into the man's chest between the ribs.

There was a soft gurgle and he fell limply to the ground. Aramis dropped the pistol, hissing at the mild burn on his palm. The skin hadn't broken or blistered, but it was red and stung. Now would have been a good time for him to still have wet clothing on hand to soothe it. But his med kit was likely still in his saddlebag on his horse.

Aramis picked his way back through the woods in search of Bern. The animal was trained not to run too far in the event of a battle, but Aramis had gotten turned around in his frantic dashing through the trees. He tripped over a root and landed hard on one knee. Swallowing a pained grunt, he tried to rise, only to sway precariously. He let himself rock back, bracing his uninjured hand on the ground to keep himself from collapsing fully. He desperately needed rest, but not yet. If he stopped now before he'd tended his wounds, he risked not being able to treat them later.

He lifted his head and whistled, two quick bursts in succession. That caused another coughing fit that left him panting. He waited.

Bern didn't respond to his call. Closing his eyes against an upwelling of despair, Aramis forced himself to rise and keep moving. Every few yards he'd whistle again. His efforts grew weaker as his mouth and throat became more parched. He hoped his waterskin was still with the saddlebags as well. If only he could find the horse.

A nicker and thrashing of foliage snapped Aramis's attention to his left where Bern was making her way toward him. His legs nearly buckled. "That's my girl," he murmured.

Before she reached him, a raging cry from behind had him twisting around as the first bandit came charging at him with a dagger. Aramis barely got his sword up in time to deflect it, and the blow glanced off his arm instead, slicing through his sleeve and catching flesh. The attacker's balance was skewed due the head wound he'd received, and he swung wildly at his target in retaliation. Aramis sidestepped a thrust and pivoted around to run him through from the back.

As his last enemy finally fell, Aramis sagged back against a nearby tree, his vision going spotty and his wounds burning with renewed ferocity. He wanted nothing more than to sit and close his eyes now that the threat of being caught wasn't dogging his heels, but he wasn't out of danger yet and he needed to stay awake.

He whistled weakly for his horse to walk closer and shifted his weight from the tree to lean against her flank. The warmth and familiarity from the contact was like a balm to his ragged mental state. And things were not about to get any easier.

He didn't have the strength to pull himself into the saddle, so he clucked his tongue to get Bern moving and simply used her as a support as he shuffled his way through the woods and away from the body he'd left behind. He would rather not have the company of the dead for what he had to do next.

He pressed on until the edge of the tree line came into view, but he stayed within the sheltered confines of the woods. While still on his feet, he retrieved his med kit from his saddle bag along with bandages and his waterskin. Then he staggered over to a tree and braced himself against it for a slow descent to the ground.

Once sitting, he took a desperate gulp of water, mentally preparing himself for the task at hand. He untied the sash around his shoulder, and then set to undoing the buttons of his leather coat so he could push it off his wounded shoulder. He unlaced his shirt and pushed it open next, exposing the musket hole. Some blood was caked around it but not much.

Aramis had plenty of experience with musket wounds, but working on himself would be a new one, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Yet it had to be done.

He opened up his med kit and picked up the tweezers. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he inserted the implement into the hole, gritting his teeth against an explosion of agony. It took every ounce of willpower to hold his hand steady as he probed deeper into his own flesh to dig the ball out. He felt the tweezers scrape against metal and his breathing quickened automatically. Determined to get it over with, he did his best to grab hold of the ball and then yanked it out with a choked gasp.

He let the tweezers and musket ball drop on the ground, panting from the exertion and pain. And to think that wouldn't even be the worst of it. Aramis uncapped the small flask of spirits from his kit and poured the searing liquid over the wound. This time he did scream, long and loud with a strangled sob at the end. There was no one in the woods to hear him except Bern, and she wouldn't tell.

He took a few moments to catch his breath. Exhaustion was swiftly draining his reserves and he didn't know how much longer he could realistically hold out. He needed to get back to Paris, which would be easier now with his horse returned. He could lash himself to the saddle so in the event he passed out on the ride, Bern could still take him home. But his wound was another matter. The hole in his shoulder was bleeding again, thanks to his digging around in it, and if he succumbed to blood loss before he could warn anyone about the envoy, then he would fail in his duty. But time was against him as well and the longer he remained, the greater chance the imposters would get close to the King.

Aramis closed his eyes as he prayed for wisdom. Unfortunately, it was the wrong thing to do, as the next time he jolted them open, the sun was in a completely different position. He cursed himself and sat up straighter. His shoulder pulsed, reminding him of his dilemma.

He decided a swift patch job was better than nothing, and he had everything out already. It took him four tries to thread the needle though with shaky hands. Doing the actual sewing was going to be atrocious, but he'd have quite the heroic tale to go with the ugly scar. If he survived that long.

Aramis sucked in a sharp breath as he pierced the needle into his skin and tugged the thread through. With only one hand available for this, the task was even more arduous, not to mention excruciating. He got halfway through before his vision swam abruptly. He froze, closing his eyes to take a few breaths before trying again. But everything was blurry and the last of his strength was finally failing him. The needle fell from numb fingers and the world went dark.

o.0.o

Constance stepped out of her house, basket of items for Mabella on her arm, and looked around in expectation of Athos waiting for her. To her surprise, and perhaps an inkling of disappointment, he was not there. She wondered if she should wait for him…though she was the one on a timetable, and it wasn't as though he was obligated to accompany her. It was just…he  _had_  said he would.

"Madame Bonacieux?"

She turned and found a young lad looking at her tentatively. "Yes?"

"Athos sent me. He told me ta tell you he apologizes for not comin', but he was called away on urgent business."

"Oh." Of course, Musketeer business was much more urgent than her delivering food to a friend. "Thank you for the message."

She had better get to Mabella's then, but after taking a few steps, she stopped when the lad followed.

"Athos asked me to accompany you instead," he explained. "I'm Jacques. I work in the stables at the garrison."

Constance hesitated, taken aback yet again by the musketeer's actions. "I don't want to take you away from your duties," she hedged.

"It's a'right. I finished my work for the day, an' Athos tol' me to come. He said it was important."

Constance found herself smiling fondly at his earnestness. "Alright then."

She set off again with Jacques by her side.

"How long have you worked at the garrison?" she asked.

"Jus' four months. But the captain says I do a good job so I think I can stay on a while," Jacques replied, a much more willing conversationalist than Athos.

"You like it there?"

"Yes, Ma'm. The Musketeers are a good regiment. The best."

She smiled. "Do you plan to become one when you're older?"

Jacques shook his head fervently. "Oh, no. I could never be a musketeer."

"Why not?" Constance exclaimed, automatically indignant on the boy's behalf.

"I ain't got the skills for soldierin'," he said matter-of-factly. "Tha's alright though. I like horses, and a musketeer's mount should be well cared for, jus' like his weapons. Aramis told me that."

A shadow suddenly fell over the lad's face and he fell silent. Constance didn't know the reason, but she thought it wise to change the subject.

"You know Athos well?" she asked, curious about her mysterious benefactor of late.

Jacques shrugged. "He don' say much."

"I've noticed," she said wryly, eliciting a grin from the boy.

"Athos is the best swordsman in the regiment," he added.

"Then perhaps he could teach you," Constance suggested.

"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "But there's no time fer that. Even two years after the massacre, the captain has been strugglin' to rebuild the ranks with skilled men."

Constance frowned. "Massacre?"

"Yeah. Twenty good musketeers killed. I've heard stories. It was awful."

Constance didn't know what to say. She couldn't imagine the horror of such loss of life.

"Which is why it's slander what they're sayin' about Aramis now," Jacques went on. "He's one o' the best, like Athos. No way he deserted in the middle of his duty."

"Is that the urgent business Athos was called away for?" she asked curiously.

Jacques nodded. "He an' Porthos went to find Aramis first, before the Red Guard does." He stiffened, face flushing red all of a sudden. "I shouldn' be talkin' about that."

"I won't say anything," Constance promised, earning a relieved look from the lad. That sort of business had nothing to do with her anyway. She was frankly amazed Athos had thought about her enough in the middle of it all to even take the time to send Jacques in his stead.

But Athos was an honorable man if she'd ever met one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One rescue coming right up.

Athos crouched down next to the four bodies lying in the woods, two of which had been stripped to their underclothes. "They're stiff, probably have been out here for a day at least."

As had he and Porthos, riding along the route they suspected Aramis would have traveled with the German envoy.

Porthos paced the surrounding area, searching the ground for clues. He paused and bent down. "Athos."

Athos looked at what he picked up: an ornate pistol with intricate filigree along the barrel. He stood swiftly and walked over.

"It's been fired," Porthos said after examining it.

Athos glanced back at the bodies. "One of them was shot. The others were killed by a blade."

Porthos gestured to the two undressed. "Think Aramis came to the rescue of someone bein' robbed?" he asked.

"Perhaps. But why would the German envoy not inform us of this? And where is Aramis now?"

Two potential victims, two potential bandits, and one missing musketeer.

"Look around some more," Athos said and moved off to search the area further. He skirted the edge of the vicinity, coming along a small slope that then descended sharply toward a cliff. Athos pulled up short at a metallic glint at the edge. "Porthos!"

Porthos hurried over, and Athos began to carefully make his way down, sliding through some of the leaves.

"Easy," Porthos cautioned.

Athos made it to the bottom and picked up the rapier. His heart dropped into his stomach as he confirmed it belonged to Aramis. He leaned out over the ledge to get a look at the drop below, then looked back up at Porthos with a grim expression. Porthos's eyes hardened and he immediately moved off, likely in search of a way down. Athos walked the edge of the cliff until the ground leveled out a bit more and he was able to climb back up to join Porthos.

They quickened their pace through the woods and around to where the terrain gradually sloped down to the shore of the lake. Porthos stopped at the water's edge, eyes narrowed across the tranquil surface. Athos scanned the bank for a body.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted.

Athos's jaw tightened, but he didn't point out the futility of calling for the marksman. His chest constricted at the thought their friend was lying at the bottom of a watery grave.

Porthos clenched his fists and stomped off along the shoreline, but then stopped and froze, eyes fixed on the ground. "Athos."

Athos stiffened, wondering if he'd missed a body hidden among the reeds. He approached stiffly, only to stop and gaze down at a bare patch of earth.

"There's boot prints here," Porthos said. He knelt down. "Heavy, movin' away from the lake."

Athos's chest hitched with a flare of hope and he crouched down too to get a look. There were indeed tracks leading away, and furrows as though someone had dragged themselves out of the water through the mud. Athos and Porthos rose simultaneously and followed the tracks up the bank until they disappeared into dry grass.

"He's alive," Porthos declared, but then frowned. "How could we 'ave missed 'im on the way here?"

"He might not be sticking to the path, and he may be injured."

Aramis would try to make his way back to Paris, Athos had no doubt. But depending on his condition, he could have veered off the travel route, or sought shelter somewhere. The thought that they could have passed him by coiled Athos's gut.

"We'll backtrack," Athos said and clapped a hand on Porthos's shoulder. "We'll find him."

They returned to the scene of the attack to retrieve their horses and then turned back toward Paris, keeping their pace restrained so they could be on the lookout, even though the desperation of their mission urged them to go faster. They found some horse tracks, which could have belonged to other travelers, or more bandits. But there was no sign of anyone as they rode on.

It was a few hours before Porthos drew back on the reins and pointed to something across the field they were traversing. Athos squinted at the large dark shape through the tree line. It looked like a horse. There'd been no indication that Aramis had left the scene on horseback, but it was worth checking.

They veered toward the woodland, increasing their pace when they recognized the black Friesian customary of the Musketeer garrison. Athos placed one hand on his pistol, anticipating the bandits' camp. The breath stole from his lungs when he spotted Aramis, slumped on the ground against a tree, doublet and shirt pushed off one shoulder to reveal what looked like a musket wound. Aramis didn't react to their arrival as Athos and Porthos swiftly dismounted and rushed to his side. Athos's stomach clenched at the sight of the threaded needle dangling from a partial sewing job.

Porthos let out a soft curse under his breath. "Aramis," he called desperately, reaching out to clasp the marksman's neck. He didn't get a response.

Athos could see the man's chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths, so he was alive. But there was a sickly pallor to his skin and a tremor in his muscles.

"He's burnin' up," Porthos said.

Athos spotted the musket ball lying in the dirt next to the open med kit and realized Aramis must have dug it out on his own. And then tried to stitch himself up.

"There's a cut on 'is arm," Porthos added and removed his bandana to tie around it. That still didn't elicit a reaction from the wounded man.

Athos eyed the hole in Aramis's shoulder and wondered whether he should finish the suture job. If he left it, the rest could come undone, not to mention infection could get in, if it hadn't already. He couldn't see any putrefaction in the wound, but the fever was worrisome.

"Is there still spirits in that flask?" he asked.

Porthos picked it up and gave it a small shake. "Yeah."

"I'm sure Aramis cleaned the wound already, but do it again."

Porthos uncapped the flask and poured some of the clear liquid over the hole. Aramis flinched and moaned but didn't wake.

Exhaling through his nose, Athos took up the needle and proceeded to sew the last of the wound closed. There wasn't much left so it didn't take long. He tied the thread off and then snipped it.

"These bandages are damp," he said, fingering the ones laid out. It churned his stomach to think Aramis had been lying here all night. "There's fresh ones in my saddlebag."

Porthos stood to go retrieve them but paused at the sound of a nicker from further into the woods. His hand went to his pistol and Athos's went for his sword. Athos stayed with Aramis while Porthos crept forward and disappeared from sight.

It was several minutes before he returned, leading another horse.

"Found two bodies. My guess is Aramis's work."

Athos frowned and looked back at the marksman. Had Aramis pursued the bandits? But why? Or had it been they pursued him? Again, too many questions and the one person who had the answers wasn't cognizant to explain.

Porthos grabbed the bandages from Athos's saddlebag. "We need to get 'im back."

"He'll be arrested the moment he's found in Paris and thrown in the Bastille," Athos pointed out. "In his condition, it will kill him."

"What're we supposed to do then?" Porthos said. "He needs a doctor. What about your apartments?"

Athos shook his head regretfully as he wrapped Aramis's shoulder. "We can't trust a doctor. It wouldn't surprise me if the Cardinal put a bounty on his head. But we need to find out what happened. If Aramis can't speak for himself, then we'll have to." Athos sighed. But they couldn't leave him untended either.

He hesitated over the idea that entered his mind. It would be taking advantage and dragging an innocent party into being an accessory of a crime if they didn't clear Aramis's name in time. But they had no choice.

"I know where we can go for help."

o.0.o

Constance was washing dishes when a knock sounded at her door. She quickly set the plate aside and dried her hands, expecting one of her husband's clients. When she opened up, however, she was surprised to find Athos on her doorstep.

"Madame Bonacieux," he greeted with a tip of his hat. "My apologies for the intrusion and impropriety, but our need is great."

He gestured behind him to where a larger man was pressed against the wall, using it to help prop up a third that was slumped against him, one lax arm draped across broad shoulders. The way the man was standing, angling his body as though to keep the unconscious figure out of sight from anyone in the square, struck Constance as odd.

She found herself stepping back and opening the door wider to admit them before she could consider the wisdom of being alone with three men in her house. She'd only had two interactions with Athos and knew next to nothing about him. And yet she felt like she could trust him.

"This is Porthos," Athos introduced, nodding to the large man. "And Aramis."

The names rang vaguely familiar and Constance remembered snippets of what Jacques had told her. Aramis was supposedly a deserter, though the stableboy had seemed adamant it wasn't true. He'd implied Athos thought the same, and Constance wondered whether the musketeer's judgement on the matter could be trusted. Otherwise, she'd just invited a wanted man into her home.

Although, given his condition, she wondered if he'd already been caught and punished for his transgression.

"What happened to 'im?"

"He was shot," Athos replied in the bland tone she'd come to associate with him. It seemed grossly unaffected given the situation.

"Shouldn't he be taken to a doctor?" she asked incredulously. Instead of to  _here_.

"His most serious wounds have been tended," Athos replied. "Right now we need a safe place for him to rest."

Safe place…God help her, what was she getting herself into?

Yet she didn't tell them to leave.

"This way." She directed them up the stairs to the back room where there was a spare bed. She grabbed some spools of fabric stored in there and dropped them unceremoniously on the floor in the corner.

Athos helped the other musketeer, Porthos, lay their comrade on the bed.

"Do you have wine?" Athos asked.

Constance nodded and left to get some. When she returned with a bottle, the musketeers were just finishing wresting the leather coat off the injured man and Constance got a look at the bandages peeking out from under his shirt. Athos took the bottle from her and wet a patch of cloth with it.

"Clean the cut on his arm," he told Porthos as he passed the cloth to him.

Porthos untied a dark piece of fabric from the man's arm, revealing a jagged slash in the sleeve. He tore the fabric further and then took the wine-soaked cloth and began wiping at the wound. That elicited a whimper from the unconscious man, though he didn't seem to wake.

Athos peeled back the shirt and bandages from the shoulder and examined that wound. "It doesn't seem badly infected."

"He ain't breathin' right," Porthos commented tightly.

In the ensuing beat of silence, Constance could hear the wheezes rattling up past bloodless lips.

"That and the fever could be from falling in the lake," Athos said after a moment.

Constance's brows rose. Fell in a lake  _and_  shot? If that constituted deserting, she didn't think being a musketeer was all it was acclaimed to be.

She grabbed an extra pillow from the closet. "Here."

"Thank you." Athos took it and tucked it behind Aramis's head, elevating him slightly.

Constance again wanted to suggest a doctor, but she supposed they had a good reason for not summoning one.

Athos slipped one hand behind Aramis's head and lifted it, pressing the wine bottle to his lips with the other. Dark red liquid dribbled down the wounded man's beard. Athos simply wiped it away with his sleeve and tried again.

"Drink, Aramis."

The man's throat started to work as he swallowed, followed by a low moan.

Athos set the bottle aside and shifted his grip to cup the side of the man's neck. "Aramis, can you hear me?"

He let out another groan but his eyes slowly cracked open, dark and glassy. "A'os?"

Constance saw relief clear on Athos's previously unreadable face.

"That's right. I need you to tell me what happened."

Aramis's eyelids closed and opened in languid flutters as he tried to focus. "Ambush."

Athos exchanged an odd look with Porthos before turning back. "You were with the German envoy," he prompted in a carefully measured tone.

Aramis nodded his head against the pillow. "Ambushed. Six men. Took…took…" He sucked in a sharp gasp. "Killed the envoy. Took his place."

"What?" Porthos blurted.

"The envoy that arrived at the palace is an imposter?" Athos asked urgently.

Aramis nodded again, his eyelids falling closed. But then they shot open and he grasped desperately at Athos's arms. "The King… Have- have to…"

Athos clasped the back of his neck. "Aramis, you did your duty. Rest now. Your brothers will finish it."

Constance wrung her hands in her skirt, feeling like an intruder on this earnest scene.

Aramis held Athos's gaze for a long moment before giving a small nod. Then he closed his eyes once more and fell limp.

Athos eased his head down and straightened. "Madame Bonacieux, I know it is a lot to ask, but Porthos and I must get to the palace. Would you watch Aramis until we return? I will see you are compensated."

"Compensation isn't needed," she replied and saw them stiffen as though interpreting that as refusal. "It would be my honor to return the favor," she added.

"No one can know he's here," Athos warned.

She nodded in understanding. Whatever was going on, she suspected it was not as simple as a soldier deserting his post.

Athos inclined his head in gratitude and started to leave.

Porthos wavered, worried gaze fixed on their wounded man. He turned to Constance. "If he gets, uh…distressed…" Porthos shifted. "Jus' talk to 'im. I bet a woman's voice would help. Let 'im know he's not…let 'im know he's somewhere safe."

"I'll look after 'im," she promised.

Porthos looked her in the eye for a moment, then nodded seriously and followed after Athos.

Constance felt as though she had just been entrusted with something of monumental importance.

Casting a look at the unconscious man in her spare bed, she turned and headed downstairs and out the door. Athos and Porthos were just riding off, and she went to the well in the square to fill a bucket with cold water, which she carried back upstairs and set next to the sickbed. She fetched a small towel and soaked it, then wrung it out before laying it across Aramis's brow. He shivered and tossed his head to the side. His forehead burned with fever but his hands were frozen. Constance grabbed a second blanket to drape over him and nipped at her lip. She hoped Athos's friend didn't die while they'd left him in her care.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who followed this story. Last chapter here. Then I have a few updates for "One For All" and then another little chapter fic after that.

"An imposter?" Treville repeated after Athos and Porthos had filled him in on what they'd learned.

"Yes. We saw the scene of the attack," Athos replied. "And the state of the bodies lends credence to Aramis's story."

"Where is Aramis now?"

"Safe, until we can clear his name."

Treville narrowed his eyes. "We will need his testimony for these charges."

"He ain't in a condition to give it right now," Porthos interjected.

"The evidence is enough to warrant detaining and questioning the envoy," Athos said firmly. He trusted the captain, and he was a man of honor which meant following orders, but on this he would not budge until they had secured Aramis's safety as well as the King's. The Cardinal would be all too eager to put Aramis under arrest in the meantime, and the Red Guard would show no mercy, not even in the marksman's weakened state.

Treville studied him for another tense moment, then gave a clipped nod of understanding. "We'll need to retrieve the bodies, and word will have to be sent to Germany so someone can come confirm their identities, which could take a couple of weeks."

"We cannot allow the imposter to remain in the palace that long," Athos pointed out. The man had already been there for two days, and there was no telling what his true intentions were.

"No," Treville agreed. He waved over some other musketeers and gave them instructions to head out to where Athos and Porthos had found the bodies and to bring them back as swiftly as possible. Then the three of them headed to the palace with all haste.

They were informed that the German envoy was in audience with the King and Cardinal Richelieu, spurring them to move faster, more or less bursting into the library disruptively.

The Cardinal looked up sourly. "Captain, I hope you have a good excuse for this interruption."

"I do. Your Majesty, we have reason to believe this man is an imposter." He gestured to the German envoy.

The man in question scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

Louis gave the musketeers a long-suffering look. "Captain Treville, what grounds do you have for this accusation?"

Athos stepped forward. "The real German envoy was attacked and murdered on the road here so that his identity could be stolen. We know this because the musketeer Aramis survived, though he was gravely wounded defending the real envoy."

The imposter let out an indignant snort. "This is preposterous. They are simply trying to cover up the fact that their man is a thief and a deserter."

Athos turned a baleful glare on him. "Porthos and I found the scene of the attack and the bodies left in the woods to rot. Two of whom had been stripped of their clothing. The articles you are wearing now, I'd wager. We also found the men you left behind to make sure Aramis never made it back to Paris. They failed."

"I've sent men to retrieve the bodies," Treville put in, addressing the King. "I suggest contract negotiations be suspended and the envoy's movements limited while we contact Germany and sort this out."

Louis was now looking at the envoy with a touch of nervousness.

"This is an insult!" the man raged.

"Our deepest apologizes," the Cardinal put in, gaze now also darkened with suspicion. "But you can understand the importance of validating—or invalidating—these claims. If there is no truth to them, you can be assured the offending parties will be most severely punished." He flicked a warning look at the musketeers before waving his Red Guard to come forward.

Athos watched the imposter's eyes go from desperation to resolve. The man's hand went to the inside of his coat and withdrew a dagger as he turned to lunge at the King. Athos whipped out his pistol and fired, and the man hit the floor mere feet from Louis, who scrambled backward in terror. Athos lowered his smoking pistol.

"Guards!" Richelieu snapped. "Remove this man. And search his rooms."

"He had a valet," Athos added. "Who is also likely an intruder, as there were two bodies stripped in the woods."

The Cardinal nodded. "Find him," he barked at the red guards.

Porthos stepped up to Athos and tipped his chin to the body being dragged away. "Nice shot. Aramis would be proud."

Athos turned to the King, who was clinging to the edge of the table shakily. "Your Majesty, Aramis has acted with all the honor and courage of a musketeer. He was wounded in the initial attack, and afterward fought to make his way back to Paris to warn of the danger to Your Majesty, nearly succumbing to his wounds to do so. He was never a deserter."

Louis swallowed hard, attempting to straighten as he tugged his coat down. "Of course. He has always been loyal, a true musketeer." He cleared his throat. "Cardinal, rescind the order to arrest the musketeer Aramis. He is a hero to France."

Richelieu looked mildly disappointed but dipped his head in acquiescence. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Louis quickly exited the room, an effective dismissal of everyone in attendance.

Treville turned to Athos and Porthos. "Now can we retrieve our man?"

Athos nodded. Now they could bring Aramis home in the manner he deserved.

o.0.o

Constance touched the cloth on her patient's brow and frowned to find it lukewarm again. She soaked it in the bucket of cold water, wrung it out, and replaced it. Aramis flinched at the contact but lacked the strength to pull away. He had not awoken since his fellow musketeers had left him here, and Constance's attempts to bring his fever down had not been successful. There had been a few moments where he'd become distressed, tossing and turning on the bed. Constance remembered Porthos's instructions and had tried talking to him. She hadn't really known what to say, and so had settled for inane drivel about her husband's business. It hadn't really settled the injured man, but nor did he get worse.

"We've got a fine blue fabric in the work room," she said when he started to moan again. "It would make for a nice musketeer's cloak. Though perhaps you'd be more concerned with getting this shirt mended." She surveyed the dirtied article with blood-crusted tears. If she thought she could have gotten him out of it, she might have set to patching it for him.

A knock at the door made her startle. Casting a harried glance at her patient, she slowly rose and made her way downstairs. Her heart pattered in her chest. Athos had said no one could know Aramis was here, and she imagined red guards on the other side of her door ready to drag the poor man away. But there was no reason anyone would know he was here. No, more likely it was one of her husband's clients, and Bonacieux would be most cross if she didn't answer.

The knock sounded again, and Constance drew in a breath to calm herself as she opened the door, prepared to act natural. She blinked in surprise to find a whole group of musketeers on her doorstep.

Athos removed his hat. "Madame Bonacieux. We're here to take Aramis back to the garrison."

She stepped back, pulling the door wider. "Then, everything's all right?" She roved an uncertain gaze over the uniformed men, briefly wondering if they'd come to their soldier's aid or to arrest him.

"Yes," Athos replied. "I thank you for your assistance in caring for him."

"It was no trouble." She led the way through the house to the upstairs room.

"How is 'e?" Porthos asked worriedly, gently nudging past her to reach Aramis's side, eyes crinkling in concern.

"The same, I'm afraid. He needs a doctor."

"He'll get one," Athos said from the doorway. He half turned and waved someone in.

Constance moved to the corner to make room as another musketeer brought in a litter and Aramis was gently transferred to it. Then that musketeer and Porthos took hold of the handles and bore the wounded man from her home.

Constance followed them out into the square where a cart was waiting.

"Thank you again for your help," Athos said, stopping beside her. Though his tone was as placid as ever, she was getting better at detecting the notes of sincerity in it. "You did France a great service."

Her cheeks flushed warm. "You were the ones who ran off to save the King. Which I gather you did."

Athos nodded. "And you sheltered the man responsible for warning us in time when the Red Guard would have thrown him in the Bastille. You saved his life."

Constance still didn't know the details, nor was it her place to ask, but she was glad it seemed everything had worked out. Well, almost.

"I hope your friend will be all right," she said.

Athos glanced over his shoulder to where Aramis was being loaded onto the cart. "He's strong."

Given the snippets she'd heard, she imagined that was an understatement.

"Mabella's son has returned, so I will no longer be running nightly errands."

Athos's expression was blank for a moment.

"So you can watch over someone else now," she elaborated, throwing a meaningful look at Aramis.

Athos's lips quirked just barely and he nodded as he donned his hat again. "Good day, Madame Bonacieux."

Constance watched the musketeers leave, struck by the solidarity and obvious loyalty among their group. It filled her with a small pang of loneliness. But her husband would be returning soon.

Constance turned to go back inside her quiet house to resume her quiet life.

o.0.o

Athos turned the page of the book he was reading, sitting by his wounded brother's bedside. It had been several days since they'd brought Aramis back to the garrison, and he had battled a persistent fever in that time though the musket wound hadn't been badly infected. The physician had concluded it was due to the combination of his injuries, a chill, and exhaustion and had prescribed tonics and warm blankets. Getting the remedies down their incoherent patient was a challenge, but they had finally been rewarded by a decrease in the fever that morning.

Aramis lolled his head to the side and Athos paused in his reading. He waited to see if the marksman would stir more or settle again.

Aramis shifted, brow pinching. After another moment, his eyes slowly blinked open. Athos remained quiet and watched, waiting for him to fully come around.

Aramis turned his head to take in his surroundings, frowning briefly at Athos before turning his attention to himself. "What happened?" he rasped.

"You've been with fever for nearly a week, but it finally broke early this morning. Your wounds are also healing." Athos set his book down on the stand by the bed and picked up a cup of water. He slid one hand under Aramis's head to lift him enough to help him drink. After a few sips, he pulled it away. "Do you remember why?"

Aramis coughed slightly and nodded as Athos laid his head back. "The envoy…" His eyes shot open. "There was an attack."

Athos clasped his shoulder to still him. "We know. You warned us the envoy had been murdered and replaced with an imposter. The impersonator was killed when we went to detain him, but we arrested his valet, who is now in the Bastille while interrogators try to discover who they were working for. The Red Guard found poison in their belongings. We're not sure why they were waiting to use it. Perhaps it had to do with the trade contract or they simply hadn't had the opportunity." Athos paused. "I don't suppose you know anything about their plan or who they were working for?"

Aramis shook his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. "What else did I miss?" he mumbled.

Athos surveyed his obviously exhausted brother, still pale and wan from his ordeal. Aramis would eventually learn of being falsely accused of desertion, but not now. "Nothing important. Try to stay awake. You need to take some sustenance."

Athos stood and went to the door, opening it enough to lean out and summon one of the men to bring up some broth from the kitchen. When he turned back, Aramis was looking at him.

"I don't remember you finding me."

"Yes, well, trying to stitch up one's own wound can undo even the stoutest man."

Aramis grimaced. "That I wish I didn't remember."

As did Athos. It had been a harrowing sight that would rival with another in a snow-covered forest. The fortitude of his brother continued to amaze him. But even so, Athos would be watching Aramis for signs that this experience would reignite some of the demons they'd only just begun to bury.

The door creaked open and Porthos entered, bearing a bowl of broth. His face brightened into a beaming smile. "You're awake. How you feelin'?"

"Apparently I've slept too many days away and yet I don't feel that rested," Aramis replied with a tired but fond smile.

"After what you've been through, you should sleep for another week," Athos commented.

Aramis affected a groan. "I dread the thought of staying abed that long."

Athos smirked as he and Porthos helped Aramis sit up, fluffing the pillows behind his back for support. Porthos handed him the bowl of broth and kept a hold on it when his hands were too weak to firmly cup it.

"Thank you," Aramis said humbly as Porthos helped lift the bowl to his lips.

"You've tended us often enough," Porthos reminded. "It's what we do, lookin' out for each other."

Athos nodded in staunch agreement. That was the code he lived by, the reason he had to keep going.

Duty, honor, brotherhood.


End file.
